


If the Fates Allow

by Mellaithwen



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Hood and the Outlaws (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Bat Family, Christmas, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Kidnapping, Rescue, Restraints, Torture, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-20
Updated: 2014-12-20
Packaged: 2018-03-02 12:22:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2811860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellaithwen/pseuds/Mellaithwen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jason regrets turning down an offer to spend Christmas at Wayne Manor.  Especially when the Joker decides to kidnap him instead.</p>
            </blockquote>





	If the Fates Allow

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in the hand-wavey timeline after Death of the Family but before Damian’s death because the former gets referenced to a bit in the story, and the latter is too sad for me to handle. The 'graphic depiction of violence' is not an understatement. 
> 
> Oh, and Merry Christmas :)

 

“Will you at least think about it?”

 

The Red Hood rolls his eyes at Nightwing’s nagging, as he prowls the rooftop, monitoring the two gangs below as they go about their business

 

“Seriously, Dickie-bird, I can think of a million things I’d rather do than spend Christmas with you and the rest of the bat-kids.”

 

“Like what?”

 

“ _Anything_.”

 

“Liar.”

 

“Look, I appreciate the offer,” he says through gritted teeth, “but no.”

 

“Jay, this is the most civil you and B have been in years. He wants you there, I want you there, we all do.”

 

Trust Dick to cut through all the bullshit and get right to the heart of the issue. Jason doesn’t respond, but instead he looks down at the drug deal they’ve been spying on from above.

 

“We miss y—”

 

“Shut up.” Jason hisses, and when Dick moves to protest, he points to the deal going south below. Guns are being drawn, the voices are louder, and as a table is flipped, Jason turns to Dick and says, “That’s our queue, Nightwing.”

 

“This conversation isn’t over, Hood.”

 

“Whatever.”

 

* * *

 

 

Jason sighs, before turning back to his drink at the bar. He twirls the glass and watches the bourbon swirl around and around. Funny how conversation’s with his estranged family tend to end up with him drinking alone in some dive in Midtown.

 

The television in the corner has the 11 o’clock news playing quietly. The newsreader on screen looks exhausted—there’s no shortage of crime to report in Gotham after all. Jason takes a sip of his drink, savouring the warmth of the alcohol when it hits his chest before settling uneasily in his empty stomach.

 

 _“And in other news”_ The tinny voice on the tv says, _“Arkham Asylum’s new state of the art security system went online today. The Mayor is said to be happy with its progress.”_ The picture changes to show the Mayor standing on the steps of Arkham from earlier today, surrounded by microphones.

 

 _“We Gothamites are strong folk,”_ He says, his chest puffed out to appear stronger than he is. _“But we all need a little help sometimes. By ensuring the patient’s at Arkham get the state of the art care they need, there’ll be an even greater chance of reform and rehabilitation.”_

 

“Bullshit,” Jason mutters under his breath.

 

“No one cares!” A patron from further down the bar cries. “Change the channel, put the game on!”

 

The barman does as he’s told and the station changes in time for the rest of the bar to cheer as the Gotham Rogues run across the field.  They’re just showing the highlights this late at night, but sports goes better with alcohol than a sombre news report.

 

“I used to take my boy to watch every college football game I could get tickets for.” The bartender says wistfully, cleaning glasses, while giving Jason a look that says he’s too young to be nursing a bourbon alone. “You like football, son?”

 

Jason stops twirling his glass for a moment, trying not to bristle at the bartender’s use of the word _son._

 

He remembers being twelve, and sitting between Bruce and Dick on uncomfortable slatted seats. They weren’t talking to each other, but they were both more than happy to talk to Jason as he munched on his chilli-dog, and _that’ll do just fine_.

 

At half time, the Metropolis Meteors had been way out in-front and Bruce got the attention of a woman selling half time snacks. Jason remembers vividly that her hair was tied back tight in a bun, and she’d looked at him, at Dick and at Bruce, and remarked on how alike they all were. How Bruce’s son’s look _just like him_ , and how he must be _so_ proud. Jason remembers how impossible it was to ignore the warmth blossoming in his chest, and how Dick had elbowed him in the ribs, grinning, as if they were both in on some private joke.

 

He doesn’t remember what Bruce might have said back then. Whether or not he corrected her, or smiled knowingly.

 

“Nah,” Jason replies, bringing himself back to the present, “I’m more of a baseball kinda guy.”

 

He downs the rest of his drink and heads out into the cold night, alone.

 

* * *

 

 

“He said no, didn’t he?” Bruce says, before Dick has a chance to make his presence known, standing in the entrance to the cave. Tim looks up from where he’s sat at the batcomputer, while Bruce, hovering behind him, keeps his back to Dick. He does, however, turn to look when his eldest son appears at his side, putting a hand on his shoulder.

 

“We just have to give him more time.”

 

“It’s Christmas Eve, Dick, we’re pressed for time as it is.”

 

“He’ll come around.”

 

“No he won’t. Whenever things get better between us he pushes me away.”

 

“Sound familiar?” Tim says, joining the conversation.

 

Bruce doesn’t answer, but Dick thinks the low growl is answer enough.

 

“I had hoped I wouldn’t need to resort to drastic measures, but he’s given me no choice.”

 

“Somehow I don’t think dragging him kicking and screaming into the manor is a good way to start the Christmas festivities.”

 

“Tt, Todd’s too stubborn for anything else.” Damian pipes up, his head popping out from the weapons bay where he’s been lurking for the past hour.

 

“No one is dragging anyone anywhere.” Bruce says firmly. “When it comes to you boys, there’s one man you won’t ever say no to.”

 

“Alfred.” Tim says, and Dick grins as he comes to the same realisation.

 

“Alfred.” Bruce confirms. 

 

* * *

 

 

Jason hates the cold. He hates the way his teeth chatter. He hates the shock of frozen air rushing down his throat and the way that snow always finds a way into his boots.

 

He hates that it reminds him of sleeping rough as a child, and seeing perfectly good people turn nasty: desperate to find food and shelter during the harsh winter months. It reminds him that for a few years he had a reprieve from all of that, he had a home, and he had family, and now that’s all gone.

 

He thinks of Dick’s offer. Christmas at Wayne Manor was always impressive, and he can’t imagine much would have changed, except for the addition of the Replacement and the Demon spawn prowling the halls.

 

His thoughts snowball from there. He thinks of the great big tree in the front room, covered in tinsel and baubles and lights. He thinks of the fire crackling in the hearth, and pressing his nose up against misted-up windows to see if the snowfall was thick enough for sledding.

 

He thinks of a turkey dinner with all the trimmings, and the distinctive smell of Alfred’s mince pies baking in the oven.

 

His stomach rumbles, and a wrong step into a slushy puddle brings him hurtling back to the present. He grumbles under his breath. He only wanted to get outside to clear his head, but his thoughts are loud and distracting, and before he knows it, he’s all the way uptown, with the bright holiday cheer, and the nice clean restaurants brimming with Gotham’s socialites.

 

To his left, he can see a family sat down for dinner. Two children exercise restraint as they kick each other underneath the table. A woman laughs. Their mother, Jason thinks, while her husband indicates to the waiter that they’d like more wine. The lights inside are warm and the clientele happy. He scuffs his shoes on the pavement, and moves on before someone notices him staring.

 

He can hear carol singers in the distance performing by the ice rink in Yeavely Park, while obnoxious too-bright signs scream _Happy Holidays_ and _Season’s Greetings_. It’s only too obvious when he starts to get closer to home: the Christmas cheer doesn’t seem to translate to Crime Alley. The decorations are scarce and the only lights are from flickering street lamps that should have been replaced months ago and car-alarms, illuminating the broken glass on the ground.

 

Even the sign for Falcone’s Casino’s busted.

 

Jason pulls his jacket tighter around him. The wind isn’t all that strong but the frigid air it carries chills him right down to the bone.

 

When he finally makes it home to his apartment, the lights won’t work, and from the loud groaning in the walls, he’s pretty sure the heating’s busted too.

 

And he’s not alone.

 

* * *

 

 

“I hope you don’t mind, Master Jason, I let myself in.” Alfred says; his face eerily illuminated by the flickering street lamps outside.

 

“You’re always welcome, Alfred.” Jason says, closing the door behind him and headed towards the kitchenette. “But with all the booby-traps on the locks, I’m guessing you had some help.”

 

“Indeed, but rest assured, we are alone now.”

 

Jason doesn’t respond to that, but he turns on the tap and waits for the water to make its way through the busted and frozen pipes, before splashing the cool water onto his face.

 

“I had no intention of waiting in the dark like your father would, but your lights appear to be on the blink.”

 

“They do that.”

 

“And your heating is not working.” As if to prove his point, Alfred puffs out a breath, and watches as it lingers listlessly, like smoke in the cold air.

 

“Yeah, it does that.”

 

He fidgets under Alfred’s gaze, watching as the man stands and makes his way over to Jason.

 

“Your fridge is empty, save for three bottles of beer, and the only food I could find were four cans of soup, which is regrettable as I had intended to cook for you.”

 

Jason’s smile turns wistful as he uncrosses his arms, and kneads at the tension in his neck in a clear sign of nervousness. He tells himself that his hands are shaking from the cold, nothing more.

 

“I’ve been busy.”

 

“Indeed.” Alfred’s tone is dry but his smile is fond. “It’s nice to see that you still take after your father in many respects.”

 

Jason stills, but makes no move to interrupt.

 

“And as much as I enjoy seeing you,” Alfred says, reaching out to tilt Jason’s chin up so that he’s looking at him, and not at his shoes, “and be assured Master Jason that _I do enjoy_ seeing you, I have come with an ulterior motive.”

 

“Wouldn’t have anything to do with Christmas at Wayne Manor now, would it?”

 

“You know that it does.”

 

“I already told Dick, thanks but no thanks.”

 

“We all want you there, your father especially.”

 

“Yeah? Then how come he hasn’t asked me himself?”

 

 “Perhaps he believes your track record of fighting one another puts him at a disadvantage.”

 

“And doesn’t that tell you that I should stay well away?”

 

“You would rather sit here, alone, in the cold and dark than put aside your differences for one day, and spend Christmas _warm_ in the company of those that love you?”

 

“Well when you put it like that…” Jason mutters sarcastically.

 

“Master Jason.” Alfred cuts him off with his stern tone, and Jason has the decency to look cowed.

 

“Look Alfred, I know what you’re trying to do but,” Jason sighs, running a hand through his hair and letting out a breath he hadn’t realised he’d been holding. “I-I have to clear my head.” He finishes before disappearing into his bedroom to change, and reappearing seconds later dressed ready for patrol.

 

“It was nice seeing you, Alfred.” He says putting the domino mask into place, before donning his red helmet.

 

“I’ll make sure to set a place for you at the dinner table then, shall I?”

 

“I haven’t said yes, yet.”

 

“ _‘Yet’_ being the operative word.”

 

* * *

 

 

Jason’s been on patrol for less than an hour, and while he’s already intervened on a mugging in progress, the night is surprisingly quiet.

 

Maybe it’s the calm before the storm? He wonders darkly. He leans against the side of a wall and looks left, right, then left again, before getting out his cellphone. Maybe being warm and well fed wouldn’t be so bad for a change.

 

“Sending Al in was a low blow.” He says as soon as the phone stops ringing with a click, and Dick’s answered with a concerned _Hello?_

 

There’s a laugh on the other end of the line.

 

_“Does that mean it worked?”_

 

Jason’s about to rumble a grumpy yes, when two teenagers brush past him, and the momentum has them hitting the ground.

 

“Hey watch where you’re going!” Jason calls after them, ignoring Dick’s muffled questions as he puts the phone away from his ear. The kids scramble to their feet, lethargic and uncoordinated.

 

One of the teens, a boy, turns around and Jason swallows the lump in his throat. The kid’s eyes are manic, and his grin is far too wide. He’s laughing breathlessly, like he can’t stop, and he looks more like a hyena about to eat his prey than he does a fifteen year old kid.

 

 _“Jason!”_ Dick shouts through the phone.

 

“I uh, I gotta go, I’ll call you back in a sec.”

 

_“Jay—”_

 

He flips the phone shut and heads after the kids who have darted away deeper into the Narrows.

 

“Hey kid! Come back here!” He shouts after them, as he gives chase, their haunting giggles echoing down the alleyways.

 

Jason makes a right and stares down at the rows of warehouses, each one identical in its dilapidated state.

 

And then he hears it, that breathless laugh, high pitched and pained. He knows only too well the agony of forced laughter from a shot of too-potent Venom.

 

He gets out his gun, and edges closer to the second warehouse. He can hear shuffling feet and the swinging of the door’s busted padlock rattling in the wind.

 

He carefully nudges the door open a crack with the barrel of his gun. Inside it’s dark but he can’t shake the feeling that he’s bitten off more than he can chew.  He goes to call for back up before entering—because he’s stubborn sure, but not _completely_ stupid—when a roundhouse kick to the face has his head smack to one side. His helmet’s cracked, and his comms are spluttering nothing but white noise.

 

“Shit.”

 

He aims a shot at his attacker, when someone else kicks his forearm and the shot goes wide. Someone jumps on his back and he spins around to shake them off but their meaty arms are wrapped around his neck—pulling him backwards and cutting off his air supply. Black spots dance at the forefront of his vision, as he tries to grab at his attacker’s firm hold. Jason grabs at the grip with his left arm while searching for a weapon with his right. The second his fingers brush the edge of his knife in its holster, he yanks it free and plunges it into the man’s forearm.

 

Jason’s released instantly and he falls to his knees, heaving, breathing deep and coughing in too much air, while his attacker howls in pain behind him. The first man, the taller of the two, kicks him in the stomach and Jason growls, grabbing the man by the ankle and twisting cruelly until he hears the tell tale snap of broken bones.

 

He stops when he hears the clapping. He turns to face the new arrival, and as he does he spots the Batsignal shining high up above Gotham’s skyscrapers in the distance.

 

“I do like a little mindless violence so close to Christmas, don’t you?” A voice sing-songs as a figure steps out of the dark of the warehouse and makes his way to Jason as he struggles to get to his feet. All of a sudden he’s barrelled into from behind, a bloody forearm—still stuck with his knife—holds him in place, while the speaking figure gets closer.

 

Jason hears a hiss and he’s surrounded by green smoke.

 

_No, no, not again. It can’t be._

 

He sucks in a deep breath, but it can’t last, and before he knows it, he’s inhaled the knock out gas, and the world around him seems to tilt on its axis. The manic laughter that haunts his dreams is the last thing he hears before he loses consciousness.

 

* * *

 

 

 

“Jason? Jason, dammit answer me!” Dick shouts into the phone as he hears his younger brother shout after someone in the distance.

 

“Jason!”

 

_“I uh, I gotta go, I’ll call you back in a sec.”_

 

“Jay—”

 

“Damn.” Dick mutters, shaking his head in concern, unable to get the uncertainty of Jason’s voice out of his head. He grabs his jacket, and heads out of the manor in his civilian clothes. He’d barely changed and arrived back at the house after his own patrol before his phone had started ringing.

 

He grabs his earpiece, and taps it to ring Barbara as he get on his bike and heads off into the city at high-speed.

 

“Nightwing?” A familiar voice answers.

 

“Oracle, I need you to tell me where Hood is.”

 

“He’s approaching an abandoned warehouse in the Narrows, why? What’s wrong?”

 

Dick’s bad feeling intensifies. Checking out abandoned warehouses in Gotham has a tendency to end badly.

 

“Wait,” Dick can hear the concern in Barbara’s voice.

 

“What is it?”

 

“His signal’s gone.”

 

“What do you mean? Is he still there?”

 

“I don’t know, it’s all gone, his comms, his gps, there’s nothing. It’s like he’s dropped off the face of the earth.”

 

Dick slows the bike to a stop, scanning the area now that he’s reached his destination. No other signs of life. He creeps slowly along the edge of the warehouse when he sees it, reflected in the moonlight.

 

“Oracle, there’s blood here.”

 

“Take a sample, you can bring it to the Watchtower and I can analyse it.”

 

Dick nods to himself, crouching to gather up the evidence, before spotting shards of red in the mud.

 

“...how much is there?” Oracle asks carefully at the silence.

 

“Not much, there’s a little more closer to the warehouse and,” Dick stares at the busted door and the clear dents at the building’s side, swallowing the lump in his throat. “There’s clear signs of a struggle.”

 

“You better head back, Dick. GCPD just released a city-wide alert that there was a break-out at Arkham.”

 

“How many?”

 

“Only a handful, but unless you’ve got your usual arsenal hidden in your jean pockets, you’re not equipped to deal with that.”

 

Any response of Dick’s is drowned out by a sudden high pitched polyphonic ringtone cracking through the air. Dick spins around, and heads back over to where the small pool of blood is gathering on the rotting wooden floor. There in the mud and grime, he sees it. Jason’s cellphone.

 

“Hello?” He answers warily.

 

“...Dick?” Bruce’s voice asks cautiously. “Why are you answering Jason’s phone?”

 

* * *

 

 

Jason wakes up with a groan. He blinks and takes in his surroundings. His broken helmet is gone and his arms are bound behind him with duct tape. He can feel the cold of the wet concrete he’s lying on seeping through his jacket. Judging by the constant sound of dripping, the stench, and the light filtering through a manhole cover above him, he’s in the sewers. He starts to shift into a sitting position, when he hears footsteps.

 

“Oh goody, you’re awake!” The Joker grins, and Jason swallows his rage. He can’t help but think back to that night in Ethiopia so many years ago. That psychopath’s high-pitched happiness while he beat his fifteen-year-old body bloody. At least then he had the sense to use handcuffs.

 

There’s a shallow river of putrid water between them in the cramped sewer, and until he can free himself from the tape, he’d like to keep it that way. The two henchmen flanking the Joker, however, are another story. Best to get them out of the way sooner rather than later.

 

The taller of the two is distributing his weight onto his left side, keeping it off his no doubt broken right ankle, while the stockier lackey has his forearm heavily bandaged.

 

“How’s the arm?” Jason asks, cockily. There’s a splash as the man growls and lunges forward, using his backhand to smack Jason hard across the face. Jay grins in satisfaction, before licking his teeth, wincing, and spitting blood onto the man’s boots. Making use of the distraction, Jason manages to turn the batarang that’s hidden up his sleeve so that he can start cutting through the layers of thick tape around his wrists.

 

“Now, now, play nicely boys.” The Joker says with glee. “We don’t want the game to end before its even begun.”

 

The taller man limps across the water, with the Joker following close behind. The stocky man grabs him by the left arm, and holds him up. Jason’s forced to hide the weapon before it’s taken from him, as the limping lackey stands on his right side, mirroring his partner as they hold him there.

 

Predictably, the Joker pulls out a crow bar, and despite the déjà vu, Jason can’t stop his body from flinching at the sight.

 

“You know how this game ends, don’t you, boy?”

 

“I know how you think it’s gonna end, Joker.” Jason snarls. “And I gotta say, you really need to get some new material.”

 

“Oh is that so?” Joker replies, before swinging the crowbar to the side, and slamming Jason in the stomach. The boy’s body arches back with the momentum, but the henchmen holding him stop him from moving any further. Jason coughs, winded, and bites his lip against the pain.

 

“You know what they say, Hoodsie. If it ain’t broke...” Joker starts reciting the saying, aiming another blow to Jason’s abdomen, before leaning in to whisper menacingly in Jason’s ear. “ _Break it._ ”

 

He laughs again, aiming a blow to Jason’s shins that has his knees buckling. More laughter as Jason slumps forward. Between each hit he feels his resolve start to give way, until all of a sudden, the arms holding him upright drop him unceremoniously into the water at his ankles. He splutters in the filthy water of Gotham’s sewage and tries to crawl away, all the while pulling desperately at his bonds, well aware that they’re close to breaking. 

 

“If I remember correctly,” the Joker taunts in the background, “the first time we played, you were so sure that he was going to save you.”

 

The stockier man grabs him by the hair and pushes his face under the water. He struggles, desperate for air, the water splashing around him, before he’s let up and his head is pulled back up out of the foul bath.

 

“Do you still feel that way, Robin? Can I call you Robin? Or is that confusing now that there’s just _so many of you_ running around. It’s hard to keep up, you’re all so disposable to dear ol’ Dad.”

 

Jason growls at the words, and his shoulders scream while his neck strains at the position he’s been forced into—his back arched as he’s held tight. He keeps twisting his wrists, he’s almost free, and all he wants to do is wipe that smug grin off of the clown’s not-quite-a face.

 

“You’re psychotic.” Jason spits, readying himself for when his restraints are ready to break.

 

“You’re not so far off yourself, kiddo.”

 

“I’m nothing like you.”

 

“I thought we discussed this already, I _made_ you. You’d be nothing without me. _Nothing_.”

 

With one final tug, the tape snaps and Jason’s arms are free, he kicks back into the stocky man’s groin, and pushes the man into the taller lackey as they both tumble to the floor. He surges forward until his hands are around the Joker’s neck, squeezing.

 

“You bastard!” He shouts, slamming the Joker’s head against the floor when the man won’t stop laughing as though he’d expected this all along. He can feel the fast paced pulse beneath his fingertips, and he pushes down, crushing the clown’s windpipe. It would be so easy; he’s done it a million times.

 

“D-daddy Bats would be s-so disappointed.” The Joker splutters breathlessly between laughs, and Jason’s eyes go wide behind his domino mask that’s still in place. He hears that all-too familiar hiss of gas and he jumps backwards, using his sleeve to protect his airways as he stumbles away through the sewers. He’s tackled to the ground again, and _dammit_ , he’s had enough of this.

 

He looks up at the shafts of light filtering through the drains above and he starts screaming bloody murder. He knows Gotham’s good Samaritans are few and far between but if there’s a chance someone might hear him...

 

“Help! I’m down here! Call Commissioner Gordon, the Joker— _Mmmph, mmmpphh_!”

 

 “Naughty, naughty.” The Joker tuts, pinching the back of Jason’s neck with a syringe, his hand held fast over Jason’s mouth. The boy struggles in his hold, desperate to make as much noise as possible, even though his screams are little more than muffled moans. The effects of the Venom rears its ugly head and Jason can’t stop laughing, even as he’s pushed onto the ground, as he’s restrained.

 

“You know I really expected you to put up more of a fight,” the Joker says, “but I suppose you’re used to being a disappointment.”

 

Jason laughs, against his will, even as the duct tape’s wrapped around his head, gagging him, and he chokes. He laughs as the last of his resolve shatters and his broken-glass memories of being abandoned threaten to swallow him whole. He forgets to breathe through his nose, and his ribs are screaming while his body shakes through the forced fit of giggles. His lungs are fit to burst, until finally, blissfully, the Joker cold cocks him with the butt of the crowbar before he has a chance to asphyxiate and he’s out for the count.

 

* * *

 

 

Dick wastes no time in dropping off the blood sample with Barbara at the Watchtower, before heading straight back to the Manor. He runs down the stairs into the cave and doesn’t bother with the usual pleasantries when he sees Damien, Tim and Bruce, all in uniform, staring at the batcave’s monitor in silence.

 

“I think Jason’s in trouble.” Dick blurts out, and feels the dread in his stomach increase ten fold when he sees Tim’s expression.

 

“We know,” Bruce says, voice sombre as he steps aside and lets Dick watch the video.

 

* * *

 

 

When Jason wakes up the second time, his wrists are bound with cuffs around the back of an exposed pipe, and there’s duct tape keeping his forearms cinched together, pulling his shoulder blades together, and restricting his ability to expand his chest as he breathes. Every weapon hidden on his body is missing, and now he’s completely immobile. His armour’s gone and so is his jacket. He shivers in nothing more than his undershirt, and he tries not to think about the fact that he’s spending the early hours of Christmas day tied up between beatings, freezing his ass off. Gotham at this time of year drops well below the forties and that’s just not helping matters. He’ll probably need to add Hypothermia to his growing list of problems; right underneath ‘captured by a psychopath’ circled in red.

 

He’s still gagged from his earlier encounter with the Joker’s Venom, and when he tries to move his legs, he can feel the bite of cold metal cuffs against his ankles.  And that’s when he realises his feet are bare. _That fucker took my boots_. No wonder his feet feel like ice.

 

He takes a deep breath through his nose to quell his panic, and almost gags at the stench of the sewer around him. He pointedly doesn’t think about how much of the putrid water he’s already swallowed while he’s been down there. It’s more than is safe, he’s sure.

 

He thinks about how different things would be if he weren’t so stubborn. He could have agreed to Christmas at the Wayne’s when Alfred was standing in his embarrassingly empty kitchenette. He could be making awkward small talk with his father by now before heading to bed. If only.

 

And then his thoughts take a turn. If he’d waited for Batman all those years ago, he might have survived. He wouldn’t have had to suffer at the hands of the Joker. He wouldn’t have had to wrestle with mania brought on by the Lazarus Pit. The anger. The hatred.

 

He’d have been yelled at, sure. Lectured a little. Grounded most definitely. But he’d be alive. He’d finish his homework, and he’d finish _school_. The passive aggression would no doubt fill the manor for months before he and Bruce finally let it all out. They’d butt heads until Alfred would step in. But they’d be okay in the end. He’s sure—and considering how Jason’s the one in charge of his own fantasy, there’s no reason for him to think otherwise.

 

His thoughts, nostalgic and maudlin, are interrupted by the presence of the Joker’s tall and stocky henchmen.

 

“Time to feed the bird.” One of them mutters.

 

They remove the tape and force Jason to drink from the water bottle they’ve brought with them. He resists at first but he can’t deny his body’s desperate thirst, and he realises too late that the water’s been laced with something that leaves him lethargic, and more manageable.

 

“How’d y’u like w’rking f’r a psychopath?” He slurs, blinking away the darkness closing in.

 

The stocky man shrugs, and takes a step back, while the taller man watches Jason with his piercing gaze.

 

“He pays better than the Penguin.” Stocky says, while Tall nods in agreement.

 

And Jason’s reminded of those desperate faces from his past on the streets. Maybe these guys have families they need to feed, maybe they don’t have a choice...

 

Tall crouches in front of Jason, and puts the tape back over the boy’s mouth.

 

“Plus I don’t like you bat-people neither.”

 

Or maybe he’s just an asshole, Jason thinks as Stocky kicks him in the face and he sees stars. He tries to keep his mind pre-occupied, and not focus on the beating. He thinks of the meal the others will be having soon. Perfectly cooked turkey, vegetables, and gravy. He tries to protect his body from the worst of the blows, by pulling his knees up closer to his chest. He imagines Damian and Tim pulling a cracker.

 

(The _crack_ he hears echoing off of the sewer walls isn’t imagined at all.)

 

Damian would be a sore winner... _and_ loser, Jason’s sure. He’d only wear the paper crown to satisfy Alfred.

 

Another rib creaks under the pressure of a boot, so Jason thinks harder about Bruce smiling—something so rare, but so satisfying—as he has a quiet conversation with Dick. It’s warm there, and so inviting, like the strong embrace he had with Bruce after his last run in with the Joker.

 

“Uh, uh, uhhh!” The Joker’s voice shatters his reverie, as he interrupts the beating and pulls Jason upright by his shirt’s collar. “Keep your eyes open, kid, I need you to say hello to ol’ Batsy for me!”

 

The Joker licks his lips, smacking them together as he grins menacingly, and pushes back a strand of green-tinged greasy hair out of his face.

 

“How do I look?” He asks, laughing, as he’s handed the cellphone. He switches on the camera, flicks it on to the video setting, and smiles with all of his teeth. It reminds Jason of a shark.

 

He presses record.

 

“Merry Christmas Batsy!” He chuckles, biting his lip in glee. “I bring you tidings of chaos and horror!” He twirls around, the camera held aloft, filming down as he spins, humming _We Wish You a Merry Christmas_ as he does so.

 

“My therapist always used to say that it’s important to make time for the little things in life. Family, friends, hobbies, and I’ve been neglecting mine.”

 

The Joker turns the camera around to show the bomb that’s been hidden under a dark cloth up until now. Jason’s protest is muffled but he tries harder to struggle out of his bonds. He’s shaking and he knows it has barely anything to do with the cold. The last time he saw that much C4, he was locked inside of a warehouse watching the digital clock tick down to zero.

 

And now it’s happening all over again, and he can’t deny the fear taking hold.

 

The Joker switches on the clock, and the countdown begins.

 

45:00...44:59...44:58...44:57...

 

“So here’s the thing.” The Joker sighs, in a mock-serious tone. “I’ve got your boy.” He waves the camera in Jason’s face for a moment before turning it back on himself. “You should train your sacrificial lambs better! All it took was shooting up a couple of junkie kids with Venom and the Red Hood comes barrelling in to the rescue! I would have used his mother as bait, but he’s running a little low on those.”

 

Jason cringes, clenching his fists bound behind him.

 

“But I’ve also got bombs planted throughout the city. I really can’t take all the credit. A faulty upgrade to Arkham’s security system provided me with some much needed help from my supporting cast.” He starts an applause that no one else takes up. “They’ll be keeping an eye out for you by the way. So no funny business.”

 

Jason thinks back to the newscast from the bar, and shudders at the thought of the criminally insane roaming the streets of Gotham on Christmas day.

 

“Every bomb you defuse up top, knocks an extra five minutes off the clock down below. So you have a choice, either you let your city burn on Christmas day, or you lose boy blunder for good this time. And remember there’s no take backsies!”

 

The Joker grabs Jason again, filming as he pulls him in close so that they’re cheek to cheek.

 

“What’ll it be, Batman: your city? Or your son?”

 

Jason’s breath hitches. He knows the answer.   Everyone does. Batman can’t risk the lives of the people in Gotham for the black sheep of the family. He can’t let himself be distracted while criminals run loose across Gotham, while there are bombs ticking away.

 

“Any last words, bird-boy? Hmm?” He squeezes tighter, his fingers digging in to Jason’s cheeks. “I can’t hear you.” He sing-songs, as though Jason could even answer with the tape still tight over his lips.

 

“Is that a yes?” He makes Jason’s head go up and down. “Or is it a no?” He shakes the boy’s head from side to side. The tape on his mouth is ripped free, and his cheeks sting. Joker grabs him by the chin, and thrusts the camera in his face.

 

“Go. To. Hell.” Jason spits at the Joker before he’s dropped to the ground. His back hits against the pipe he’s tied to, and he lets out a cry. The Joker gets out a purple handkerchief and wipes the spit from his cheek, his upper lip curled in distaste. He hands the camera over to one of his lackeys, and rolls the handkerchief into a ball. He shoves it into Jason’s mouth, and grabs the roll of duct tape from out of his second lackey’s hand.

 

“No manners.” He mutters, and Jason watches, dazed, as the tape’s wrapped around his mouth and the back of his head. Each time, it’s pulled tighter so that it digs into his skin, pinching his cheeks. When the Joker’s done, he takes Jason’s head in both hands and positions his fingers above Jason’s cheekbones.

 

“Maybe I’ll start with his eyes.” He says, darkly, smiling for the camera. Laughing, as he digs his fingernails into the soft tissue below Jason’s eye socket. He doesn’t let up until the boy’s muffled screaming reaches an appropriate decibel, and there’s red rivulets dripping down his cheeks like horrific tears.

 

“Call me!” The Joker cackles at the camera before using Jason’s own body as leverage, and slamming him to the ground so hard that he hits his head with a sickening crack.

* * *

“Oracle intercepted the message a few minutes after you left the Watchtower.” Tim explains, as Dick watches in horror as the Joker shows them the bomb he’s got rigged in the sewers. The eldest ex-Robin winces each time Jason comes on screen, bleeding and bruised and bound to a goddamn pipe.

 

 _“Call me!”_ The video plays, high pitched and awful. The picture freezes on the image of Jason, unconscious and gagged, fresh blood oozing down the side of his face, and Dick tries to keep his emotions in check, clenching his fists in fury.

 

“He didn’t ask for anything.” Dick whispers, running a hand through his hair. “He doesn’t have any demands, he just... _damn it_ , he just wants to mess with you, and he doesn’t ever _stop_.” He punches the rock wall of the cave in an attempt to let out his frustration, and Bruce grabs him by the shoulders to ground him.

 

“I’m getting your brother back.” Bruce says tightly, as though the Joker’s words _I’ve got your boy_ , aren’t running around his head like a broken record, making it impossible to think straight.

 

“We need to pinpoint his location.” Tim says practically.

 

“There’s _nothing_ in the video to point out where they are,” Damian says, as he rewinds and fast-forwards the footage. He’s kept it on mute for his family’s sanity’s sake. Oracle’s voice comes through the communications hub on the batcave’s mainframe, letting them know she’s finished analysing the samples Grayson delivered.

 

“The blood Nightwing found at the warehouse doesn’t belong to Jason—”

 

“So it might be completely unrelated?”

 

“—But the red shards he found were graphite with a foamed polymer liner. It’s definitely from the Hood’s helmet, I recognise the design. The DNA on it matches Jason’s. The striation’s are consistent with his helmet being...smashed.”

 

“So we know that’s where he was taken.” Dick says with certainty. “They can’t have gotten far, there were no vehicle treads at the scene.”

 

“Even on foot, there’s hundreds of manholes in the Narrows, and they could’ve walked for miles inside the sewers themselves.”

 

“Helpful.” Damian taunts, but Tim doesn’t take the bait.

 

“The bombs.” Bruce says, turning back to the computer screen where he can see Oracle already typing furiously. “If the Joker’s controlling the detonation then—”

 

“They have to be radio controlled, and if they are then I can use their frequency to track them down.”

 

A map of Gotham appears on screen suddenly, with the addition of five blinking red dots spread out across the island.

 

“Okay,” Barbara starts to explain, having tracked them down in record time. “The bombs have been placed strategically to cause mass casualties. This first one is at the freeway interchange by Lemmars Park—the blast from that alone would cause chaos on the busiest roads out of Gotham towards the airport and over the bridge.”

 

“That one in Midtown is by Wayne Central Station. Five separate monorail tracks run there. Not to mention the structural damage that Wayne Tower would suffer from.” Tim says, staring at the blinking red light with dread.

 

“And that one in Yeavely park would have hundreds of civilian casualties,” Dick points out. “The ice rink’s open all Christmas day and it draws big crowds every year. Lots of families. Lots of kids.”

 

“The one in Gainsly is in a heavily populated residential area.” Damien points out, “and the bomb planted downtown is in the heart of the financial district.”

 

“They’re spread out across Gotham, but...” Oracle hesitates.

 

“But what?” Bruce asks.

 

“None of them are showing as being below ground. They’re not in any sewers. The Joker must be controlling that one manually.” She takes a breath, and stops typing for a moment. Staring at the Wayne family through the computer screen. “I’ve got no way of finding Jason.”

 

* * *

At first, Jason thinks he’s been moved to a much darker part of the sewer—because the shafts of light from the slits in the drain cover above him are gone—but when he tries to shift his body, he can feel that he’s still tied to the pipe. His wrists, torn and bloody, are still in the handcuffs he hasn’t been able to get out of, and he’s still shivering violently in the cold of the wet sewer.

 

 _Maybe I’ll start with his eyes_.

 

The Joker’s words come back to him all of a sudden and he starts to panic. He starts to look around desperately in search of any source of light, desperate not to confirm his worst fears. As he does so he feels the pull of tape over his eyelids and breathes a sigh of relief that the gag stops short. He’s not blind. Blind _folded_ , but not blind. Shivering, bleeding, bruised and bound, but not blind.

 

He focuses on trying to calm down. His heart’s beating wildly against his chest, and the claustrophobic darkness he’s been plunged into isn’t helping. He hears a scurrying nearby and bucks his body when he feels what he can only assume is a sewer rat nibbling at his knee. He moves his legs to fling the creature off of him.

 

He hears a squeak as said vermin hits the wall and scurries away. Jason’s pain filled moan is muffled by the gag as he sets his legs back down. Definitely some damage there then. He tries to dislocate his thumb to slip the cuffs, but he can’t get his hands to work properly, and the cuffs are so tight that he’s not sure it would be any good in the first place.

 

He’s stuck, and the longer he’s here, the weaker he’s gonna get. He’s already worked out that his tracker’s being blocked by something, otherwise Oracle would have already sent in the cavalry by now. Assuming they cared.

 

He almost feels relieved, knowing that the Joker gave Batman an impossible choice. He can convince himself that Batman would have saved him for sure if it hadn’t been for Gotham, and picking a city of some eight million people over your son? No contest. _Ding, ding, ding_ , Gotham, we have a winner!

 

 _Stop it_ , he thinks to himself, pushing away the self-deprecating thoughts—only too aware of how dangerous a road that can lead to.

 

If he’s going to die, he has to make sure that the Joker dies with him. They can blow up together and no one else has to get hurt.

 

“Such resilience.” The Joker sighs, suddenly close-by as though he could read Jason’s mind. “You know, you probably don’t remember but you just kept blacking out the first time we played this game. It was really quite frustrating. I mean, if someone asks you a question, it’s only polite to answer.”

 

Jason can’t see where the Joker is. But he hears the shuffle of metal being picked up off of concrete. Hears footsteps, one, two, and finally he can feel that psycho’s breath on his cheek—he’s way too close for comfort and Jason has nowhere to go.

 

“So tell me, once and for all. Forehand?”

 

Jason can’t stop his muffled scream as he feels a rib give way under the assault.

 

“Or backhand?”

 

Another hit, two to the back of his knees and one more to the shoulder. He manages to duck away from one hit, and he can hear the loud reverberation as the crow bar slams into the pipe behind him. His body thrums with pain, shaking in exertion and the wet substance on his wrists and ankles tells him he’s no closer to getting free but he’s damn good at bleeding all over the place.

 

“Have we learnt our lesson yet, little bird?”

 

Jason swallows the bile in his throat as the Joker uses the fond nickname Dick sometimes used. Little bird _. Little wing_. Right now, he’d do anything to hear Dick’s voice again. He’d even sit through one of Bruce’s lectures on his moral compass, or listen to Tim recount his adventures with the Teen Titans. He’d make things right with Damian, whose hatred isn’t completely unfounded.

 

“It’s not _nice_ to ruin someone else’s _punchline_!” The Joker punctuates his words with each hit. “Maybe now you’ll think twice before ruining my fun. Oh but wait, you won’t be able to, because you’ll be dead, dead, _dead_.”

 

* * *

 

“So we’re back to square one.” Tim says, wearily, looking up as Alfred descends the staircase into the batcave in silence. “We can’t risk defusing the other bombs without being able to get to Jason in time.”

 

“We can’t put an entire city at risk for Todd either.” Damian points out logically. “And there _is_ a chance he could survive the blast.”

 

“Even if he did,” Bruce growls, “the debris would bury him alive.”

 

 

“So we must find Master Jason first.” Alfred says, his tone betraying none of the emotions he’s no doubt feeling.

 

“Exactly.” Dick nods, pacing the floor as he does so. “We defuse the bomb in the sewers and then worry about the rest.”

 

“Maybe Oracle can track where the video was uploaded—”

 

“I already did, Red.” Oracle says. “I tracked it to an internet café in Chinatown. Whatever lackey the Joker sent is long gone, and he knew to avoid all of the surveillance cameras in the area.” She sounds more annoyed with herself than anything else.

 

“Wait a sec,” She says suddenly, typing away again, analysing transcripts of calls from earlier that evening. “GCPD got a call a couple hours ago from a woman saying she heard screams on the corner of Steely Avenue and South Place.”

 

“That’s in the Narrows. And not necessarily uncommon...” Damian says.

 

“That’s only a couple blocks from Jason’s last co-ordinates before his tracker went offline.” Tim pipes up simultaneously.

 

“She says the sounds were coming from the drain.”

 

“Did they send any units to check it out?” Dick asks, already knowing the answer.

 

“No, they’re spread too thin as it is trying to round up the Arkham’s inmates.”

 

Batman shoots to his feet, his cowl already in place. “Send me the co-ordinates, Oracle.”

 

“Already on it.”

 

“I’m coming with you.” Dick calls after Bruce, as they both head towards the batmobile.

 

“No.” He says firmly, as batwings flap faintly in the distance of the cave. Not one to back down easily, Dick stands his ground, ready to protest, when Batman’s hand rests on his eldest son’s shoulders. “You have to keep our city safe, Dick. If it comes down to it—”

 

“No.” Dick says now that it’s his turn to refuse. “You’ll be down there too. I won’t risk Jay’s life and I sure as hell won’t risk yours.”

 

“I’m trusting you to make that call.”

 

“The Joker won’t be alone. He’s psychotic, you have no idea what he might do.”

 

“I know that I can’t fail Jason, but I won’t risk you or your brothers being anywhere near that clown. Not again. You stay well away, Dick, that’s an order.”

 

He turns back to where the others are still discussing their strategy to handle the remaining bombs, as well as any encounter they may have with the handful of Arkham escapees.

 

“Get the location of the bombs out to Gordon and every cop in the city that’s worth a damn. Find them, and when I give the all clear, defuse them.” He turns back to Dick, as his eldest dons his domino mask, ready for action. “No one dies tonight.”

 

* * *

The howling wind above him jerks Jason awake. He thinks he might have been dreaming, and it wasn’t all that bad, but even that feeling’s ebbing away, floating just out of reach.

 

He wonders how long he’ll be left alone for—assuming the Joker’s even planning on coming back at all. Maybe he’s making sure he’s far away from the blast zone. The clock said 45 minutes but he has no idea how long it’s been or how long he was unconscious for. If the other devices are being detonated as of this moment, there might be little more than five minutes left.

 

Jason grits his teeth against the pain and pulls at his restraints for the millionth time. So much for ensuring the Joker stuck around for the grand finale.

 

His body’s racked with violent shivers as he tries to keep his thoughts clear. There has to be a way out of this, but his concussion’s catching up with him, and he can’t think straight. The feeling of nausea’s increasing and every breath he takes to stop from suffocating behind the gag has his nostrils filling with the foul smell of the sewage surrounding him.

 

He can hear footsteps in the distance, splashing as someone runs towards him. It must be one of the Joker’s cronies checking on the bomb. Or the Joker himself. Or both. He curls in on himself, trying to take up as little room as possible. Maybe he can fade into the shadows, because he knows his body can’t take much more of a beating. The footsteps slow, and when someone’s hands are touching him, Jason flinches violently and tries to move away.

 

There’s a voice but he can’t make out the words. All he can think of is the Jokers sharp fingernails brushing past his cheek and he’s pulling and shaking and doing everything he can to get away.

 

“Jason, Jason, please, stop—dammit, Jason you’re gonna hurt yourself.”

 

The words filter through the haze and Jason’s brash movements start to slow.

 

He knows that voice.

 

“That’s it, it’s okay. I’m gonna take the gag off, just hold still okay?”

 

Hands, gloved—cautious now, tentative—pull at the tape, easing it off carefully to cause as little pain as possible. Jason tries to control his breathing but he still feels like he’s choking on the dirty rag that’s in his mouth and he’s desperate for it to be gone. The second the tape’s removed, he coughs it out, and can do nothing to stop the bile that follows after. The smell of the sewers and the fear and adrenaline running through his veins is suddenly too much. He feels a hand rubbing his back, telling him to breathe slowly, breath deep.

 

“You’re okay, you’re okay.” The voice comforts him, and keeps him anchored as he shudders through the vomiting spell.

 

Jason can’t stop shaking, and he’s muttering under his breath, his voice cracked from disuse. He sags in his rescuer’s arms, like a puppet without its strings—his body feels removed—like he’s a passenger and everything around him is just white noise and _painpainpain_. His body’s descent pulls against the bindings that have him held fast around the exposed pipe. It hurts, but he hasn’t got the strength to do anything else.

 

“No,” he moans. “No, no, no. You can’t be here.”

 

“Easy, Jay, Easy. I’m gonna take off the blindfold, okay?”

 

The hands are on his face again now that he’s no longer throwing up. Thick layers of tape are pulled away, but when it’s gone Jason can’t bare the thought of opening his eyes. What if it’s a trick? What if it’s the Joker still? He can’t take it, he won’t.

 

“You can open your eyes, Jason.” The voice tells him. “Please, look at me, Jay, I need you to open your eyes.”

 

But if it’s a trick, how could he know? How could he say those words that remind him so much of...

 

“B?” Jason whispers, opening his eyes to slits. The light filtering down from up top is brighter than his pupils can stand, and his vision is blurry and faded at the edges, but he can just about make out the silhouette of Batman’s cowl against the harsh glow. His saviour, his mentor, his _father_ is there in the flesh and he can’t look away.

 

“That’s it, Jay. I need you to stay as still as possible while I cut the ‘cuffs, okay?”

 

“Just...” he can’t stop trembling, and even though he’s desperate to make a sarcastic comment on how he’s being handled with kid gloves, he doesn’t want it to stop.

 

He’s freezing and the smell of fresh vomit along with whatever else is down there is making his empty stomach roll. His shoulders are burning from where they’ve been wrenched behind his back and tied for so long. His ribs are on fire from the Joker’s beating and he’s losing any handle he might have on his already turbulent emotions.

 

“... _get me out of here_...” he whispers desperately, closing his eyes and letting his head fall back onto the wet floor. He hears the release of the ‘cuffs around his ankles, and closes his eyes tightly as the metal is peeled away from raw, chaffed skin. Batman turns his attention to the handcuffs on Jason’s wrists next, when his comms burst to life.

 

“Batman!” Dick’s voice sounds urgent. “Are you clear? The Yeavely Park bomb is almost to zero!”

 

“Same with Gainsly,” Tim confirms grimly on the shared line. “I thought the Joker said we had 45 minutes?!”

 

“They must all be set to different timers.” Batman replies through his own comm., giving Jason’s arm a comforting squeeze. “I’ve got Jason, start defusing them.” He says, as he finally breaks the lock on the restraints, and slowly pulls the cuff away from the painful bloody grooves on Jason’s wrists.  “I should’ve known he’d be lying.”

 

“We-heeell, the truth’s just no fun!” The Joker yells, jumping out from his hiding place in the foul water, a crowbar raised high. Batman manages to slip a batarang into Jason’s hands for him to work on the remaining bonds, as he catches the other end of the crowbar in mid air and wrestles with the Joker. He pushes the madman back, as one of his cronies jumps around Batman’s waist while another tries to barrel him down by tackling him in the back of the knees.

 

Jason watches on in horror as the Joker holds on to the crowbar for dear life, even as Batman pushes him until he’s back to back with his own bomb. Focusing on free himself of his bonds, Jason can feel himself hacking into his own forearm with the batarang, but he doesn’t care. They have to get out of there, and he hasn’t got time to be careful. He winces as the tape finally starts to give way, and pulls desperately until the it finally snaps.

 

“How sweet, you came for Hoodsie after all.” The Joker says, grinning, as the stockier henchman, currently grabbing at Batman’s face distracts the great detective. “I don’t think Comish will be too happy when his city goes _boom_.”

 

Batman’s forced to let go of the crowbar and turn to face his inferior attackers. He gets his right leg free and stomps on the man on the ground’s hand. He feels the bones there crunch underfoot and he uses the man’s agonizing scream as a distraction to fling the stockier man over his shoulders and onto the ground in front. He sees the bandaged forearm and digs his fingers into the wound, eliciting another scream.

 

The Joker picks that moment to slam a crowbar over Batman’s exposed back. He grunts and uses the stockier henchman like a battering ram; bowling him into the Joker and knocking them both back onto the ground. He kicks the attacker—whose hand he crushed—in the face, knocking him out, before turning his attention back to the Joker and grabbing the clown by the throat, and holding him there against the bomb that reads 05:59.

 

“That’s not the game.” Joker croaks, under Batman’s tightening grip. “But that is.” He continues in breathless delight, his eyes darting over Batman’s shoulder to where Jason has tried to stand but has now slumped against the wall in a daze, barely conscious. “H-have you made your choice yet, Batsy?”

 

He has.

 

He drops the Joker to the ground where the clown falls in a heap, and rushes over to Jason, to catch the boy as he falls. The manic laughter that follows him can’t be ignored.

 

“Leaving so soon?” Joker screams after them, cackling, while the ticking of the bomb nearby somehow seems so much louder.

 

_Tick, Tick, Tick._

 

“You h-have to go.” Jason whispers, teeth chattering as his head lolls from side to side.

 

“Not without you,” Batman returns sternly, before pulling his son into his arms and running towards the open manhole he’d first entered through into the sewers. When he gets to the ladder, he manoeuvres Jason so that he’s in a piggyback position. He climbs as quickly as he can before Jason’s grip starts to slacken. The fresh air is more than welcome as they make it out of the manhole, and Batman moves him a safe distance away from the entrance, lowering him gently to the ground.

 

A voice through the comms confirms that the last bomb is being defused, now which gives Batman less than a minute to maintain the example he wants his boys to follow.

 

“Jason, I’ll be right back.” He promises when his son’s hand reaches out to stop him from leaving. He set the arm down, squeezing it gently for comfort. “Trust me.”

 

Jason watches in horror as Batman disappears back into the sewers. He tries to stand but he can’t move at all. His last reserves are spent and he can feel himself starting to pass out as it starts to snow around him.

 

“Batman!” He calls out, his body too weak to even shiver anymore.

 

He feels the desperation build when a sudden explosion bursts up through the entrance to the sewers, and the ground beneath him shakes. _No, no, no. This can’t be happening, this can’t be happening._

 

“Dad!” He screams, until his throat is hoarse. _“Dad!”_

 

And in the darkness he sees a figure through the smoke.

  

He made it out. He takes one, two, three steps before crashing to his knees. Jason tries to drag his body closer, reaching out, but it’s no use. He’s too far away and everything hurts and he’s so cold and clearly delusional because he sees a flash of red and a face blocks his vision.

 

“Nightwing?” He whispers. “Batman...he’s hurt, you have to help him.” He thinks he says, but he can’t tell over the ringing in his ears.

 

“Jay, your lips are blue, you’re my priority, kid. Don’t worry, help’s on the way.”

 

“But, dad...” he tries to protest but the exhaustion is taking hold, and the darkness has never been so inviting.

 

* * *

 

_“...n you hear me?”_

_“…eep your eyes open...”_

_“...Todd…”_

 

* * *

 

_“Jason!”_

 

Bruce shoots awake with a cry. His son’s name on his lips, as someone’s hands try gentle push him back into lying down.

 

“Easy, Bruce, you’ll tear your stitches.” A woman tuts, and Bruce looks up to see white hair, curled, and the tops of rimmed glasses perched on the edge of her nose.

 

“Stitches? What stitches? What... _Leslie?_ What are you doing here?”

 

“I called her.” Dick says, readying himself for a fight that Bruce has no intention of starting. “Jason was in a bad way, and we didn’t have time to sort out a cover on account of him being legally dead an’ all, so the hospital was out of the question.”

 

“Jason, how is he? I need to see him.” He tries to stand again but this time Dick helps Leslie hold Bruce back.

 

“He’s stable, Bruce, and he’s strong, but I need you to rest until I can make sure your insides stay on the inside.”

 

“You caught some shrapnel from the blast.” Dick explains to try and ease some of his confusion. “Tim says he and Commissioner Gordon found you passed out next to the Joker and two ex-cons just lying in a heap.”

 

He blinks, and remembers stumbling forwards from the force of the explosion, trying desperately to get back to where he’d left Jason.

 

“I got to Jason,” Dick continues, knowing only too well where Bruce’s thoughts were headed. “I called Dr. Thompkins and she met us at the batcave.”

 

“Alfred and I managed to stabilise him. He hasn’t woken up yet.”

 

“How’s he doing? Really?”

 

Leslie sighs, and against her better judgement, tells Bruce what he wants to know.

 

“He has three broken ribs, and a nasty concussion. There’s severe bruising along his torso and back but there doesn’t appear to be any spinal damage. As well as facial contusions, he has abrasions on his wrists and ankles, and lacerations to the right and left forearm. There’s swelling along the left knee joint. He’s dehydrated, showing signs of a bacterial infection and hypothermia.” Leslie takes a deep breath, as Bruce swallows the lump in his throat.

 

“Alfred’s with him now. I’ve done what I can. The infection should clear up with the antibiotics I’ve given him, I’ve hooked him up to an IV to help with the dehydration and there’s morphine to manage the pain. He needs warmth and a lot of bed rest, and I’m not talking about 4 hours sleep and then he’s back out on patrol. The same goes for you. You have to take it easy; you’re both incredibly lucky. There’s no point ruining that by pushing yourselves too soon.”

 

“Don’t worry Dr. Thompkins, we’ll keep an eye on them.”

 

“You always were the sensible one, Dick.” Leslie says fondly as she takes her leave. In the doorway, she turns back to Bruce, calling for his attention with an even tone.

 

“When Jason wakes up, he’s going to need your support. He won’t ever ask for it, but you better be ready to give it, son. I’ll check in on you both in a couple of days, but if there’s any problem just give me a call, okay?”

 

Dick waits until Leslie’s long gone before turning back to his father.

 

“She’s right you know, about Jason. He’s been through a lot, but this might be one thing too many.”

 

“You heard Leslie, he’s strong.” Bruce says, his tone gruff and filled with concern. He carefully swings his legs over to the side of the bed, and Dick rolls his eyes at Bruce’s blatant disregard of medical advise. “But we’ll make sure he knows he’s safe, and that we’re for him.”

 

“That’s surprisingly wise for a man who’s trying to stand up seconds after being advised by a doctor not to.”

 

“I’ll rest when I’ve seen Jason with my own eyes.”

 

“You’re like a child. It’s actually kind of ridiculous how stubborn you are.”

 

“Either help me, or get out of my way.”

 

“Oh please, like you can even make it to Jay’s room without me.” Dick grumbles, wrapping Bruce’s arm around his shoulders and helping him hobble across the landing to Jason’s room.

 

When they get there, Alfred is carefully wrapping Jason’s left wrist with gauze, having cleaned and debrided the wounds there, and is about to move onto the right arm when Bruce steps into the room and stops him. He makes no excuse for being up and about, but merely sits in the chair next to Jason’s bed, and gets to work on cleaning the boy’s injured right wrist.

 

Alfred looks between Bruce’s careful ministrations and Dick’s shrug from the doorway, before the eldest ex-Robin leaves them in peace.

 

“Master Bruce, I can see to that, you need to rest.”

 

“I want to be here when he wakes up.” He tells Alfred honestly, staring at the angry red welts and cuts that serve as reminders of his son’s captivity.

 

“You don’t have to punish yourself.” Alfred says quietly, so that only Bruce can hear. “You saved him. He’s alive because of you.”

 

“He’s lying in this bed because of me.”

 

“No, he’s lying in this bed because of the Joker, and his obsession with making Gotham city burn and forcing you to watch.”

 

“I’m...”

 

“Sir?”

 

“I’m tired of burying my sons, Alfred.”

 

“As am I, Master Bruce.” Alfred replies pointedly. “As am I.”

 

* * *

 

_Can I call you Robin? Or is that confusing now that there’s just so many of you running around. It’s hard to keep up, you’re all so disposable to dear ol’ Dad._

_Have we learnt our lesson yet, little bird?_

_Tweet, tweet._

_Tick, tock._

_Boom_

 

Jason wakes up with a start, his breath hitched. Slowly, he looks around and tries to get his bearings. He’s definitely not in a sewer anymore, that’s for sure.  Through the open curtains of the window pane, he can see that it’s still light out, but if the pink tinged clouds are anything to go by, it’s dusk.

 

The last thing he remembers is being cold in the wake of an explosion and...

 

 

He has to find him; he has to know that he’s alright. He turns his head to the side when he feels slight pressure on his hand, only to see Bruce’s head resting there on the side of the bed. He looks fine, his chest rises and falls with each breath and Jason can see shallow cuts and bruises on his arms but it looks mostly superficial.

 

It’s then that he looks down at his own arms, swathed in bandages from his elbow down to his wrists. He thinks of the criss-crossing marks that are surely there, both from the restraints and the self-inflicted slashes from the batarang as he worked to free himself from the bindings. He wonders if they’ll scar.

 

He swallows back the anxiety he can feel building in his chest. He’s in the Manor that much is obvious. He’s safe. He’s free, Bruce is fine by his side, and if the almost-numb feeling is anything to go by, he’s hopped up on the good stuff. For the first time in so many hours he’s not in any pain, and there’s a warmth in his veins that he can no doubt thank the IV he’s hooked up to for.

 

Unable to resist any longer, he gently flicks the back of Bruce’s head, and the man twitches awake. Any confusion is washed away by the sudden realisation that his son is conscious. He smiles, his relief palpable, as he brushes Jason’s hair out of his eyes.

 

“It’s good to see you awake.” Bruce whispers, as though he’s afraid that speaking any louder might shatter the illusion. Jason smiles tiredly, leaning closer into Bruce’s touch.

 

“How are you feeling?” His father asks.

 

“Good,” Jason says, “all things considered. What about you? Are you okay?” He frowns at the way Bruce favours his torso, the slight bulge underneath his shirt making it obvious that there are bandages under there.

 

“I’m good, all things considered.” He agrees, squeezing Jason’s hand. His expression changes as he focuses on the stark white bandages on Jason’s arms.

 

“Jason, I—”

 

“Don’t.”

 

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

 

“Sure I do, you think it’s your fault, blahdiblah, I’m the dark knight, I’m responsible for everyone and everything and global warming is all my fault.”

 

“Wow, does he have you pegged.” Tim interrupts as he, Damien and Dick push themselves into the room, having overhead voices from the corridor.

 

“It’s good to see you, little brother.” Dick smiles perching on the end of the bed, while Tim occupies the extra seat and Damien stays close to his father. Alfred, only too accustomed to the comings and goings of the Manor, steps into the room and elects to stand behind Grayson, smiling down at Jason as the boy blinks at the sudden eruption of company all around him.

 

“Guess I missed Christmas, huh?”

 

“Are you kidding?” Dick asks. “You really think we could’ve sat around eating turkey while you were...” He swallows then, the unease clear on his face.

 

“It’s _postponed_ , until you’re ready to go back to solid foods.” Tim says, making a face.

 

“A rain-check, if you will.” Alfred adds. “Until you’re feeling up to it.”

 

“You guys didn’t have to do that.”

 

“Tt, don’t be stupid Todd, of course we did.” Damian mutters, and Jason thinks it’s the closest thing to endearment as he’s ever gonna get from the kid. He feels the drug-induced haze getting stronger and he smacks his lips together as he burrows further under the covers. He barely hears Alfred shoo his brothers out of the room, but he feels a comforting squeeze on his foot from Dick as his older brother tells him to feel better.

 

“What I was trying to say earlier—” Bruce starts, when they’re alone again, before Jason interrupts him, sleepily.

 

“S’riously, again?”

 

“I put you in harms way _, again_ , Jason, and there’s no excuse for it. I’m sorry.”

 

“I’m ‘nly gonna say this once ‘cause these pain meds are _stroooong_ , and I’m falling back ‘sleep, but what happened wasn’t y’ur fault, so stop blaming y’urself already.”

 

Bruce lets that sink in for a moment, and wonders how long it’ll be before he can accept his son’s forgiveness.

 

“I’ll let you get some rest.”

 

Jason reaches out, half asleep, but doesn’t say anything, and all of a sudden Bruce is reminded of Leslie’s warning from the other day. That Jason _wouldn’t_ ask.

 

“Or if you want, I could stay a while.”

 

The relief on Jason’s face is only obvious if you know where to look. The tension in his shoulders eases somewhat, and Bruce sits back down, and settles in for the night, holding Jason’s hand all the while.

 

* * *

 

“Sweeps of the city show no more traps or devises left by the Joker.” Oracle tells them as they’re all—minus a resting Jason—assembled in the batcave. “There’s structural damage to the sewer system where the bomb went off, but it’s being worked on as a priority.”

 

“And the Arkham inmates?”

 

“Detained and being processed as we speak.”

 

“Did they pose a problem for any of you when you defused the bombs?” Bruce questions.

 

“Nothing we couldn’t handle, Father.” Damian says proudly.

 

“It helped that they weren’t necessarily firing on all cylinders.” Tim concedes.

 

“We’re lucky that only a fraction of Joker’s know associates even made it out of Arkham’s grounds.” Barbara points out. “The flaw in the new security system was a big one, but there were plenty of guards still working when the breakout occurred—at least enough to keep some of the criminals inside.”

 

“And everyone’s accounted for.”

 

Barbara nods.

 

“Along with the Joker and his new pals. The Asylum’s reverted back to the old security system until the bugs in the new one can be worked out.”

 

“And Wayne Enterprises, aka _me_ , is helping out with that.” Tim says, almost smirking.

 

“So it’s over, Father.”

 

Bruce fights the urge to say _famous last words_ , to Damian, when screaming from upstairs has him barrelling out of the cave, faster than his healing wounds would like.

 

By the time Dick’s followed him and made it to Jason’s room, his younger brother is already awake in Bruce’s arms, blinking owlishly at the last of his most recent nightmare, his breathing almost back to normal. Dick closes the door to give them privacy and tries not to linger on the image of Jason’s holding on to Bruce for dear life.

 

* * *

 

He can’t see. He can’t see. It’s dark and it’s cold, and he can’t move and _he can’t see_ , and there’s screaming all around him, and he’s terrified because he knows that voice. He _knows_ that voice.

 

“Dick.”

 

And then that laughter—that goddamn manic laughter that haunts him wherever he goes.

 

“Get away from him!” Jason screams, “leave him alone you sick son of a bitch!”

 

Another guttural scream, and Jason hears the telltale snapping of bone.

 

“Dick!”

 

“Jason!”

 

He whips his head around to the other side of the room. That’s Bruce screaming his name. Another cry for help, that’s Alfred. He can smell burning as Damian curses from another room. And Jason long ago learnt to recognise the sound of metal hitting soft tissue.

 

“Tim.” He whispers. “No,” his voice gets louder.

 

“Leave them alone!” Jason cries louder still, struggling in his bonds. His wrists burn as he pulls harder and harder until it feels as though the whole room is shaking around him. His family’s screaming is shrill and loud and he thinks his eardrums are about to burst. He drags himself up off of the floor, reaches out to remove the blindfold—only to find no blindfold at all. His fingers shake as he reaches up to where his eyes should be, to find nothing but bloody holes—

 

Jason wakes up thrashing, clawing at his face, and pushing himself as far back as he physically can. He can still hear screaming in the distance and it takes him a while to realise the screaming voice is his own. His body aches, and still half-asleep, Jason lashes out at the hands that try to hold him.

 

“You’re okay, you’re safe, everything’s gonna be alright.” Bruce repeats, like a mantra, until finally Jason stops struggling and slumps in his arms. “It’s okay, everything’s gonna be okay.”

 

Jason holds onto those words, as he gets his breathing under control. He clutches onto them in his mind in the same way that he’s holding on to his father; tightly, unable to let go. Praying that he doesn’t ever have to.

 

* * *

 

“I know he’s certifiable, but it still doesn’t make any sense.” Tim says from his position next to Bruce on the sofa, staring at the files of paperwork spread out around them.

 

“Tt, certi _fied_ , would be more appropriate.” Damian says.

 

“Joker could have picked any part of the GC sewage system to cause maximum damage, but he picked the Narrows. The monorail there is barely in use; it’s the least populated area in the city, and aside from Arkham, most of the buildings are abandoned. It doesn’t make any sense.”

 

“That last bomb wasn’t _supposed_ to cause mass destruction, Tim.” Bruce replies quietly, rubbing his eyes as the words on the paper start to bleed in to one another.

 

“It just had to kill me.” A voice from the doorway finishes, and Bruce turns to see Jason leaning against the doorframe, with a self-deprecating smirk on his face.

 

“You should be in bed.” Bruce admonishes, standing up, and carefully lifting Jay’s good arm to rest on his shoulders, and helping him back towards the main staircase. He tries to keep as much weight off of Jason’s injured knee as possible.

 

“I got bored.” The boy might have shrugged if he didn’t know how much it would hurt his still-healing wounds.

 

“You could have talked to your brother, he was supposed to be watching you.”

 

“Don’t be too hard on Dick, he fell asleep, and I’m really v-very stealthy.”

 

Bruce frowns at the shiver that runs through Jason’s body, despite the thick clothes he’s been bundled up in, and the blanket that’s wrapped around his shoulders.

 

“Are you cold?”

 

“Can’t seem to shake it.”

 

“Leslie warned us that that could happen, but don’t worry, it’ll pass. In the mean time, we’ll keep you wrapped up warm in bed. We can add in the extra duvet from the guest room—”

 

“What part of bed-rest do you not understand?” Dick interrupts from the top of the stairs, his arms crossed, his expression stormy.

 

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, _Mom_ , I’m heading back there now.” Jason snarks in return, not bothering to get there any faster than Bruce’s slow and steady gait will allow.

 

“Damn right you are. I might have fallen asleep during Indiana Jones, but it’s Jurassic Park next.”

 

“I can hardly contain my excitement.”

 

“Well it’s either that, or I read to you.”

 

“Okay, okay, Jurassic Park it is.”

 

* * *

 

 

For the most part, Jason manages to forget his nightmares a few minutes after waking up, breathing heavy, but there’s one terror he just can’t seem to get rid of. The one horrible dream that he always remembers waking up from in the middle of the night, and it’s quite possibly the worst.

 

It starts off normal. Sometimes he’s in the sewers, sometimes it’s a warehouse. Sometimes he’s fifteen, sometimes twenty. But the part that never changes is this.

 

He’s watching as the Joker crushes Bruce’s windpipe. He’s not dressed as Batman. He’s in slacks, and a shirt that screams Bruce Wayne: playboy and part-time-Dad.

 

And then that damn clown laughs, and tells him over and over again that he _made_ Jason, and that they’re so very alike.

 

When Jason looks down it’s his own hands around his father’s neck, pressing down.

 

He always wakes up just as Bruce’s neck snaps under his fingertips.

 

He swallows the bile in his throat as he eases himself up off of the bed carefully and heads over to the bathroom. He grabs a Gotham Academy hoodie on the way.

 

The light bounces off of the white tile, only serving to emphasise his death-like pallor.

 

Or maybe, he thinks—staring at himself in the mirror—it’s just in contrast to the deep dark purple on the bruising that covers most of his body. He cringes at the burst blood vessel in his right eye, covering the normally white area in red. It makes him look like he has a dark side, it reminds him of Two-Face, and then he thinks about the Joker, and the crowbar and that night, and those nightmares.

 

And he takes a deep breath, holding on to the sink with a vice-like grip as he collects himself.

 

He lifts up the old faded t-shirt he’s wearing and stares at the skin there that’s mottled green and blue, like some sick mural: A vast array of bruises all in various stages of healing. He waits for a moment before the shivering starts, and he dons the hoodie—that may or may not belong to his older brother—before making his way downstairs.

 

It’s really the gingerbread that does it. The smell of Alfred’s 4am stress baking, wafting along the hallways of Wayne Manor is enough to get anyone out of bed. Impossible to ignore when the last thing you want to do is go back to sleep.

 

Jason knows which floorboards creak and which ones don’t, and he slowly makes his way, barefoot, down to the kitchen, only limping slightly when his knee starts to twinge. He’s been as quiet as a mouse, but Alfred still greets him as though he’d stomped his way down the stairs.

 

“Have you got much of an appetite, Master Jason? Only there’s rather a large amount of cookies here if you do.”  
  
Alfred is wearing his dressing gown—now flecked with white flour—and despite any protests to the contrary Jason knows he's to blame for bags under the old man’s eyes.  
  
“Hey Alfred. Did I wake you?” Jason asks, suddenly paranoid that he’d been screaming in his sleep again.  
  
“Not at all, Master Jason. Milk?”  
  
Jason huffs out a laugh but nods all the same  
  
He puts the milk down and Jason knows he's being stared at. When he turns, he can see Alfred’s gaze zero in on the angry cuts and bruises at his temple and along the side of his jaw.  
  
“I'm okay Alfred.” He tries to reassure, and fails miserably.  
  
“No you're not," Alfred says solemnly, reaching out to rest his hand on Jason's forehead. A motion the boy is so used to that he hardly even flinches. "Hmm. A bit of a temperature but that should pass."  
  
Jason doesn't respond, but he sighs at Alfred’s cool palm against his warm skin before turning his attention back to the 4am snack laid out in front of him, fearing that it might be taken away if he's not careful.

 

“I believe your father wishes to speak with you.” Alfred tells him a moment later.

 

“He’s awake? Why?”

 

“I should imagine it’s the same reason as you, Master Jason.” Alfred says knowingly, handing him the glass of milk and a plate stacked with cookies, holding open the door to the front room.

 

The only light is from the fireplace, casting the room in a warm orange glow. True to Alfred’s word, Bruce is sat on the sofa, staring at the flames as they burn up the logs there, ignoring the abandoned book in his lap.

 

He pats the cushion next to him in an invitation, and takes the plate and glass from Jason, to let the boy sit back uninhibited.

 

“Nightmares?” He asks his son.

 

“Understatement,” Jason replies, in a rare moment of honesty, as they slip into a comfortable silence. He reaches over to where his father has the plate resting on his thigh, grabs a cookie and dunks it into the glass of milk.

 

For a moment the only sounds are from the crackling fire and the gingerbread crunching in Jason’s mouth.

 

“You know you can always talk to me, if you need to.”

 

Jason nods, and Bruce doesn’t expect much more, so when Jason speaks up, it’s more than a little surprising.

 

“I didn’t think you’d come.”

 

His voice is small, and unassuming. So unlike his usual brashness. He sounds so much younger than he is, but then Bruce is reminded that he’s hardly older than a teenager as it is.

 

“What? Jason, of course—”

 

“It’s nothing, just, just forget it.”

 

“No, don’t push me away. You can talk to me, Jason; I’m your father. It’s my job to listen.”

 

“Never seemed to bother you before.” Jason snorts, instantly regretting his words. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—”

 

“It’s alright. I deserve that. But you have to believe me when I say I want to be better at this, _with you_. I owe you that much.”

 

“Joker just has this... _way_ of getting under my skin, you know? And it doesn’t matter that I know that he’s just saying crap to hurt me, it still, kinda, works every time.”

 

“What did he say to you?”

 

“The usual.”

 

“Jay—”

 

“No, I get it. I get what you’re saying, talking helps, but I know he was wrong, I don’t need anyone else to tell me that, I just need to work through it in my own head. That’s all.”

 

“You don’t have to do it alone.”

 

“I know.” Jason nods slowly. “I know. Thank you.”

 

“You know, Alfred said you would have appreciated the offer to spend Christmas here to have come from me directly.” Jason doesn’t respond, and Bruce continues. “And you’re right, it should have. I’m sorry. I tried to call you on Christmas Eve but...”

 

 _I was already too late. You were already being beaten with a crowbar at the hands of a psychopath_. Bruce thinks but doesn’t say.

 

“So I’m asking you now. Would you like to spend the Christmas holidays with us at Wayne Manor?”

 

“In case you hadn’t noticed, I’m kind of already here—”

 

“I’m asking you, all the same.”

 

“—And Christmas has been and gone.”

 

“Not here it hasn’t. If you’re feeling up to it, I was thinking we could have Christmas tomorrow. Opening presents, eating dinner, roasting chestnuts on the fire etcetera,  etcetera.” Bruce suggests, smiling wistfully, his body language matching Jason as they both sit slumped on the sofa, staring at the fireplace.

 

“Don’t you mean today?” Jason smirks; looking up at the clock on the mantel that tells them there’s only three more hours until sunrise.

 

It’s then that Jason notices the stocking’s hanging above the fireplace. Six of them, to be exact. Naturally there’s one for Alfred and Bruce—that’s a tradition that’s long been upheld since Bruce’s own childhood. There’s one for Damian too, and sandwiched between Dick and Tim’s, is a stocking labelled _Jason_. It’s not a new one that’s been hastily put together either. It’s the original from his childhood. He remembers being given it as a gift at his first Christmas at the Manor.

 

He’d spent the whole day terrified that he was gonna mess up and get sent away. He was skittish, and quiet. Dick had tried everything to cheer him up, and when they finally dragged themselves back into the house from building snowmen outside for hours, Bruce had called him over to the front room. 

 

Jason had thought _, this is it_. But hey, it had been nice while it lasted.

 

Instead of confirming his suspicions, Bruce had sat him down, and handed him his stocking. His name carefully embroidered by Alfred’s hand in dark green cotton.

 

“Here,” Bruce had said, all those years ago. “Go ahead, hang it up next to Dick’s.”

 

In the present, he brushes his fingers along the curve of the _J_.

 

 _“_ You kept it _.”_ Jason whispers, a familiar warmth blossoming in his chest. “All these years, and everything I’ve... _damn_ , you actually kept it.”

 

It’s then that Jason realises that Bruce is still waiting for an answer. _Would you like to spend the Christmas holidays with us at Wayne Manor?_ Really, Jason thinks, Bruce has been waiting for quite a long time.

 

“Sure, Dad.” Jason says, after a beat, as he sits back down. He yawns and presses himself into Bruce’s chest, savouring the warmth and comfort that he finds there. And the prospect of a good night (well, technically, _morning_ ) sleep, free of nightmares, in the safety of his father’s arms.

 

“I’d love to spend Christmas with you guys.”

 

 

 

 

_-Fin_

 

**Author's Note:**

> feel free to say hello on [tumblr](http://mellaithwen.tumblr.com/)


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